The When
by marieincolour
Summary: While he waits for the When to hit, Sam fixes the house and the car, and waits. Impatiently and regretfully. There's a kitchen and half a roof. No slash, spoilers for Season 7 finale. Rated M for language and just in case. Oneshot.
1. The When

**Prompt:**"Sam CARRIES Dean out of Purgatory", by i_speak_tongue over at livejournal in mad_server's S7 Finale meme.

**A/N: **This is quite simply a prompt fill, and not a very thorough one at that. I'm sure there are spelling errors and typos that I haven't caught, and so I'll just say I'm sorry in advance. It's a thought heavy little oneshot, so be warned if that's not your cup of tea.

Thanks for reading, thanks for reviewing if you find the time. :)

**Disclaimer: **I _don't _hold any claim to Supernatural or any of the characters, and I'm not making any money on this.

* * *

**The When**

Summer turns to autumn. Autumn turns to winter, and Sam is still looking.

Oh, he knows _how. _He's waiting for the _when. _Literally waiting, because the timing has to be right. Sam will get through, and not back, otherwise. He waits for the signal.

Honestly, though, living with the knowledge that Dean is in purgatory, and Sam is still up here? It's almost tempting to go through too soon and get stuck and then figure it all the hell out _with Dean_.

The little cottage on the edge of Bobby's land, left to Dean, and then on to Sam, has taken on a new life in the last few months. Sam carefully set up the ritual in the only room that had a roof and remotely waterproof surroundings in the house, and then set about keeping his hands busy. It's a tiny little thing, with two bedrooms upstairs that boil with heat in the summer sun, and a kitchen worn down from years of being in use, and then standing there all alone with no one to even wipe down the counters. It's more like someone's vague idea of a kitchen than an actual kitchen, but Sam is working on it. Truly is.

And somehow, through the long, long months in waiting for the _when _Sam makes it a house someone can live in. Not a home, but a functional house. Sort of.

The Impala has a spot out front, and though she isn't as spotless as when Dean takes care of her, Sam can carry his own. She was his November project.

It's March now, and as he does laundry in the second (more like fifth) hand washing machine, the _when _hits him.

Castiel, his eyes wide like he knows things he shouldn't, his words confused and muddled as he talks of boardgames and says what Sam is pretty sure is actually "It was the butler, in the living room." like he's playing Cluedo, not saving Dean's life, stands in the middle of the room. Which is tiny, and Sam is huge, and Cas doesn't have any concept of personal space at all.

Sam shoves him into the hamper, then runs for the living room. Lights the candles. Reads hurriedly in latin, doesn't need the cheat sheet because he _fucking knows it all by heart _by now, having recited it under his breath for the better part of nine months. He twists it in his fingers anyway. Doesn't have the luxury of fucking up.

The living room blurs. The painted green floor turns brown with rotten undergrowth, and the sweet scent of fabric softener turns sweeter still, decay and misery heavy in the air.

Sam shudders, looks behind him. It's the strangest thing, like he's in a Disney cartoon. There's a door. A plain, painted door. Homemade, with a round handle worn by years of use.

He wonders vaguely who used it, and steps further in.

He should be close. Should.. Should see Dean. Strictly speaking, he should be right in front of him.

His ritual, it hones in on the thing that belongs the _least _in purgatory. If that isn't Dean, Sam isn't sure who it is. What it is. Might be. Whatever.

There's a soft sound behind him, like someone bit their tongue. A scared sound no one was ever meant to hear, or certainly not try to decipher. He turns to find Dean, almost 20 cm from his own face, hand outstretched to touch his hair. He's filthy, but he looks the same as Sam remembers. He isn't wasted. Doesn't look like he's been living on a deserted island for nine months, talking to a volley ball. His hair, always cropped short, is still cropped short in the same controlled ways it always is. Sam doesn't know why he imagined Dean with a sharp rock, tugging it off and cutting it away.

He's unshaven, a few days growth on his face, and his clothes are torn, and _fuck_, they're bloody.

"Sammy" Dean whispers. "What the fuck took you so long?"

And then his eyes roll up into his head. His shoulders seem to contract into his stomach, but Sam realises it's only because he's falling.

Sam doesn't let him. Wraps his arms around his brother, pulls him up. Dead weight against his taller frame. He heaves him up, the weight staggering him slightly, but Dean's broad shoulders have always hidden a slighter body than most people think. Larger than life personality hiding a body of average size. Sam knows, because he's hauled Dean's ass out of more tight spots than he can count.

And Sam is a fucking _Sasquatch_, for crying out loud.

_I ain't heavy, I'm your brother, _the creepy voice that sounds like Dean in his head sings.

He stumbles through the door, and realizes belatedly that no one has used it to get out of Purgatory, because it's the door that leads to their pantry. In their kitchen.

Dean gurgles in the back of his throat, and Sam almost drops him in his haste to get upstairs, the staircase even narrower than when Sam navigates it alone, his head _always _banging on the ceiling, shirt sleeve catching on the nail he always forgets to pull out of the wall.

Up the stairs, to where there's a bed, and a tiny little bathroom which sometimes has water and medicine and bandages because _fuck shit fuck fuck stupid_, the living room was all taken up by herbs Sam has religiously switched weekly, and candles that have gotten progressively more dusty as time ticked away, closer to the _when._

He's not nearly as prepared to have Dean back as he thought he was.

The musty smell of decay clings to Dean as Sam pulls off his boots, his jeans. Doesn't give a thought to dignity or personal space, tugs it all off.

Dean is pale. Thin, because they didn't exactly eat well in the time before he went down.

His leg is broken. Badly.

His head has bumps and bruises, and his pupils are uneven and slow. Sam worries.  
His chest has a deep cut that's already turning pink at the edges, that Sam can't close with stitches out of fear of infection, and there's an unhealthy pink tinge to his cheeks and rattle in his breath as Sam heaves him into the tub, showers him off with water that's _warm_. And fuck if that little accomplishment doesn't almost make him cry. He feels like putting Dean in the tub, with the little piece of lavender soap sitting on the edge and leaving purple markings, makes it more permanent somehow. Like the mundane act of _bathing _is the final signal that the _when _came and went and it's all all right.

He's got Dean back, in a house with warm water. Got him away from leviathans and crazy ass angels and into the safe, warm arms of a baby brother with a head full of regret and worry.

And he's a fucking _Sasquatch _who went to Purgatory to carry his older brother, by three years now, home.


	2. Arrival

**A/N:** This was written to a prompt over at mad-server's S7 Finale Meme (LJ). It ended up being a part two to another filled prompt, and because I'm lazy I put the pieces of the puzzle together.

As such, they don't fit seamlessly. Had I written this with the intention of it being a part two from the start, it would've been different. As it is, I just like this. So I'll leave it alone and stop poking at it now.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Prompt:** After Purgataory, Dean deals with touch starvation. It's embarrassing to him, but it helps him to have Sam touch him as much as possible.  
Dean/Sam or gen brotherly touching!

* * *

**Arrival**

He's in shock that first night. Or day, he doesn't know. Really, he could care less about the position of the sun.

Their tiny little house is confining after the vastness of purgatory. Dark forest, whispering creatures that never come near him. Like they don't know what to do with him, apart from ripping him to pieces. In purgatory, he's an unknown.

It's sort of like hell, in that when he comes out he's the same physically. Sort of. Or.. Well. Not exactly. He's thinner, hair patchy from lack of food, skin papery and pale from lack of sunlight and dehydration. He's covered in scars, like a wendigo tried to carve him like a turkey. His leg isn't in good shape, and he's pretty certain he's got some kind of chest infection, but all in all he's in one piece. He can deal with it. _Has been_ dealing with it for the past however long Purgatory lasted.

But he's thin enough that his hipbones jut out, and his biceps looks like they belong to a fourteen year old girl.

When he finally wakes up after sleeping for longer than he cares to think about, the first thing he sees is water. Clean, cool water in a glass. Not muddy, smelly water from his hand. There's a hand under his head, too, and though he's steady enough to drink on his own, he doesn't complain.

Sam's eyes are large and brown when he finally looks up, and he thinks they're the thing he knows the best in the world. Like one of those things you study as a child, like droplets of water dribbling down a windscreen or the way dust dances lazily in the sunshine. Those useless things you watch when you're little and there's nothing better to do, and you have all the time in the world to waste on watching mundane things. He _knows _those eyes.

"Shower?" He grates out, and they both wince.

"Don't.. Just whisper for a little bit, all right?" Sam mumbles, smile measured and tiny on one side of his mouth, a bitchface growing rapidly on his forehead. Dean grins, and nods. The crack in his lips starts bleeding sluggishly again.

He showers, and Sam buzzes his hair off with a trimmer. Leaves it a couple of MM long, but Dean thinks it looks better than it did before anyway. His face is all angles and sharp corners, but the crows feet that stood out last night were mostly made of brown dust, and he's glad to see he doesn't look as old as he'd feared. Or.. Feels.

There's a warm hand on his neck while Sam shaves him, all soft moves and focused gaze. Not a nick.

Sam tries to leave the bedroom when Dean crawls in again, and he can't figure out where the whimper came from at first. It's dusk out, and the room is greyish black, corners hidden completely and blue light only just giving him a view of the flowered wallpaper. Sam turns in the hallway, where he's almost standing double to avoid banging his head on the door frame.

"Did you.."

Dean turns his face away, towards the dark window. Shuts his eyes.

He's got to relearn this. Being around people, having them close and remembering they're alive even if he's not following every heart beat through his own skin.

In a way, he supposes it was easier to know that wasn't possible, and that while the thought of being close to another warm body filled him with a kind of ache that thrummed through his arms and legs and made him stop momentarily to gather himself it was a thought that could be pushed away.

Because there were no constant reminders.

Sam crosses the room on soft feet, white socks only halfway clean after a long day around the house. He crawls under the covers anyway, stretches an arm around his brother's waist. His achingly thin waist. The thought occurs to him that he's hurting Dean, and that the weight of his arm is too much on a body that's already stretched and pulled too far, but whatever pain he's causing is less than the good he's doing. The body he's got an arm around shudders once, then inches back. Carefully, with little moans of pain when the movement pulls on cuts and bruises not yet healed. He takes pity, again, only it's not really pity.

He pulls himself closer instead, holding the thin, cold body back to chest. Dean's fuzzy scalp tickles his neck, and he can feel the tremors going through him now like they're his own. He pulls the covers further up, leans his nose in against the puppy fuzzed head.

He wants to talk, but sometimes it's better to just shut the fuck up when it's Dean you're dealing with. So he does.

Dean's breathing evens out, but he's not yet asleep. He's caught in that place between sleep and awareness where you appreciate every sensation against your skin. The kind where you appreciate wearing clean clothes with the faint smell of detergent on them, or the softness of the sheets you're on. The breeze from the window, cool against slightly fevered skin. The heavy arm around his waist, that puts pressure on a sensitive midriff.

He's been alone for so, _so _long. In a place that doesn't give him the benefit of even knowing how long, which makes it immeasurably longer. The sound of a heart beating against his body is like a drum. It's uneven, but healthy. Strong. He imagines the blood surging through his brother's veins at that exact moment, the purpose of the drumming. Soaks it in, think of how many times he's wanted to feel that.

Everyone _needs _human contact. Newborns will die without it. Dean isn't so sure he could've gone for much longer, either.

It's like he's filling some.. Some empty part of him that's been denied filling for so long it's like he's run out completely, is starting fresh with filling his mind with new memories of touch that doesn't hurt him. There's a large, empty space right in the middle of his gut that needs refilling.

He inches impossibly closer, feels the arm tighten around him in response.

Sam isn't asleep. Sam is awake, paying attention to him. Watching over him.

There's someone watching over him.

Time moves faster in the now, rather than in the timeless space in purgatory. He feels cheated, out of control and out of place. Like things around him are on the freeway, and he's toddling along in the bike lane.

Their tiny little house is worn down and loved, Sam's handiwork like a patch quilt over the place. The tub gurgles and splutters, the sink sprays water down your t-shirt. There are train lines not far away, across the muddy field, and the house shakes when they hurry past.

It's like they come and go without pause, dizzying speed and repetitiveness that makes him reel. He finds himself reaching out to Sam over the smallest things, more than he's ever done before.

He's never felt needy, but Sam doesn't seem to mind the hand that will sometimes reach towards the back of his t-shirt, just below his shoulder blade and grip it tight, or the hand that accidentally brushes against his hand if they're out. The first time Dean sits down at the same side of the diner booth as him is slightly awkward, but Dean keeps his eyes fastened on the menu, and ignores the startled look from his little brother. And soon enough, Sam starts scooting further in to make more room for Dean next to him.

Sam takes him to the doctor, and they patch him up as best they can without performing surgery.

"He's too thin" the doctor says simply, harshly almost, and Dean's hand twitches towards him. "There are no reserves right now. Nothing to go on. We'll put it in a walking brace, see if he can handle that, and we'll see you back in a month."

The fingers of Dean's right hand are raised, but not touching Sam yet. Like he's trying to hold back, but knows he can't forever.

Usually, when he's almost freaking out and needs something to grasp hold of he finds himself tugged closer, a firm arm around his shoulders and his face buried against a t-shirt that smells slightly of man and hard work and oil. Sam doesn't mind, and it's one of those things that fills the empty space within him just a tiny little bit at a time.

They don't mention it. Speak very little about anything, as a matter of fact. Dean isn't used to having a conversation with anything, if you disregard streaks of curses and shouts of pain. Sam seems used to keeping quiet, in a desperate and goal oriented sort of way that leaves him slightly disoriented now that the goal is right there, in front of him, smelling faintly of soap and worn wool. He's been pouring everything he had into getting the books back, the spells and herbs and everything he needed because his brother, his soulmate was taken. He reels from the lack of a purpose.

So he pours it into fixing the kitchen sink, or trying to cover the holes in the roof with real tiles rather than the tarp he put up before. He finds himself dawdling, though, because Dean seems to mind being alone, and Sam doesn't feel comfortable taking him up on the roof to fix anything at all. His inner eyes sees his brother falling, tripping, breaking his neck or drowning in the rain.

And Dean is filled with a kind of jittery energy that pulls them together, like something inside Sam calls something inside Dean, and Dean can't stay away. If sam leaves him alone he'll come toddling after, almost automatically it seems. They've always been close, long cold nights in tiny motel rooms and hunts that leave them wide eyed and terrified of daylight, never mind the dark. But there's a desperation in it now that was never there before. Like Dean somehow lost his sense of future and is living entirely in the _now. _His emotions haywire and frightened and not yet in place as Dean Winchester, badass hunter.

He doesn't truthfully know if he wants that Dean back, either, because when he pulls the thin, warm body against his chest at night, and it sometimes turns to huddle closer, or hides slightly behind him in the shop when they're approached by _anyone_, it's like he's meeting his brother for the first time in _years._

Like Dean finally took off the leather jacket he put on at the age of fifteen, and exposed that boy underneath that Sam remembers from long hours of playing with cars on the floor.

Dean used to cry at scraped knees, and would howl in anger when Sam tried to take his toys. He'd cry when he threw up, was prone to fits of crying for no reason other than being tired, and had a healthy dose of jealousy reserved specially for anything and everything Sam got that he didn't. He refused to take pills without them being crushed into jam until he was nearly twelve, and used to get dreadfully carsick. Even in the Impala.

Sam remembers the Dean that would curl up against their dad when he was home, like a spider monkey, and he remembers baths taken in small motel room tubs with a dingy boat and two filthy, cold boys squished in together.

That's the Dean Sam remembers from his childhood, and he's missed that sometimes. That easy undignified fear of childhood that disappears when you grow up and have to act tough.

The head that's searching for a warm spot on his chest tugs out a smile, because while Mr. Badass Dean Winchester would never allow this to happen, Dean Winchester, his best friend in the entire world _wants _it. And allows himself to want it.

And if Dean doesn't remember that he's not supposed to admit to wanting it, that doesn't bother Sam at all. He curls up closer, twines one sock clad foot around his own and drifts off.


End file.
